


Isn't This Nice?

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Dates, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hanukkah, Jewish Stiles Stilinski, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 09:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12932763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Stiles and Scott have been best friends forever, and things couldn't be better--but an exchange of gifts one holiday season changes everything.





	Isn't This Nice?

**Author's Note:**

> A big THANK YOU to the mods for running the Secret Santa gift exchange! What a wonderful to bring more Sciles into the world!
> 
> To sleepy-skittles, I hope you enjoy your present, it was a joy to write!

 

The air crinkles with frost, each breath crisp and biting. Stiles rubs his hands together, willing blood back into his fingertips. Puffs of warm breath float out between his lips. The trees, bare branches like claws against the night sky, sway in the wind. Patrons inside the restaurant eye him through the window, ogling the crazed boy waiting on the curb in forty degree weather—a rarity for Beacon Hills. Stiles would have to agree with them; he has no sane, rational reason for not going inside and getting a table. Scott knows where to meet him, and even if Stiles didn’t jump up waving the second Scott walked in, his best-friend-turned-werewolf would be able to smell him.

            So then why was he shivering outside?

            Part of Stiles still can’t believe it’s true. Nights he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, the taste of Scott still tingling on his tongue. It all seems like a dream, too good to be true, and Stiles keeps waiting to wake up.

 

            “Do you want to come over for Christmas Eve?” Scott asked, even though Stiles had spent every Christmas Eve at Scott’s since the first grade. It was something that puzzled Stiles, how unsure Scott could be, his need for reassurance, to ask again and again if Stiles wants to tag along. As if he would ever want to be anywhere else.

            “And miss your mom’s homemade eggnog? Not on your life.”

            The house was decked out in lights. As Stiles parked in the driveway, a rainbow of color blinked on Roscoe’s hood. Scott must have heard him pull up, because as soon as Stiles shut the door, there he was, waiting on the porch in a horrendous sweater, smile brighter than the next three houses combined.

            “Merry Christmas,” Stiles said, letting himself be pulled into a hug.

            “Happy Chanukah.” Scott’s chin rested on Stiles’ shoulder. He smelled like pine and wood smoke.

            “Not for one more day,” Stiles pointed out.

            Scott shrugged. “Nothing wrong with some holiday cheer a day early.”

            Inside a fire crackled in the hearth, the air rich with the smell of food baking in the kitchen. He heard the clatter of cutlery. Melissa called to welcome him and ask for an extra hand if the boys could spare one. Together they set the table, laughing and talking about nothing at all.

            “I’m sorry your dad couldn’t join us, Stiles,” Melissa said as she poured herself a glass of wine.

            “Mom made too much food again,” Scott said, earning himself a finger between the ribs.

            “Thanks, I know he’d have loved to, but Christmas is a pretty crazy time, crime-wise. Do you know someone actually tried to steal a Christmas tree out of someone’s house? Full-on Grinch style.”

            Stiles told them the story, and by the time he finished, Scott was crying from laughing, and Melissa spit a little of her wine, staining the table cloth. They ate; everything was delicious.

            “The potatoes are all Scott,” she said as Stiles piled on a second helping, and from the way Scott blushed and dipped his face, Stiles could tell he was proud. He kicked him gently under the table, and when Scott looked up, he winked.

            Just when Stiles thought he couldn’t eat another bite without exploding, Melissa brought out dessert: fig pudding, cookies with ice cream, fresh caramel sauce. Around 10pm, Melissa saw herself off to bed. “Don’t stay up too late,” she said, kissing them both on the cheek.

            Stiles draped himself over the couch in the living room, rubbing his distended belly. “I think my stomach exploded. Literally, call Deaton, I think I need emergency surgery.”

            “If you were a border collie, he might actually be able to help.” Scott poked Stiles’ tummy, making him squirm. “Everything seems intact to me.”

            Scott sat on the ground, his back against the couch. For a while they listened to the fire crackle and pop, lulled by its warmth. Stiles’ eyelids grew heavy, the thick wave of sleep slowly lapping over his head. Below him, Scott shifted, and when Stiles blinked awake, two brown eyes stared down at him.

            “Merry Christmas,” Scott whispered.

Stiles checked his phone—12:04am. “Mer’ Chrismm,” he slurred, rubbing the heel of his palm across his eyes. He sat up and stretched, the bones in his back popping. Scott still knelt on the ground, grinning up at him, for all the world the picture of an over-eager puppy.

            “Do you want your present?” he asked.

            “Dude, I told you, you don’t have to get me a Christmas present. I’m Jewish. What, is eight gifts not enough?”

            “Stiles,” Scott said, rising to his feet, “a _million_ gifts aren’t enough for you.”

            Something in the way Scott said it—the warmth hidden in his words, like a caramel center, sweet and gooey—struck Stiles, dug into his chest and melted down to the balls of his feet. Scott disappeared upstairs. In the quiet of the night, Stiles listened to the creek of his steps as he rummaged around in his room. He came back clutching a small rectangle, draped in newspaper.

            “Sorry,” he said, handing it to Stiles, “we ran out of wrapping paper.” Carefully, Stiles lifted the corners, peeling off the tape. A picture of a moth stared up at him. Thomas Harris’ _The Silence of the Lambs_. “Look inside the front cover.”

            Flipping the book open, Stiles saw, scrawled in a tight, neat script, a signature, with a note: _To Susan, with admiration, T. Harris_.

            “How did you—?”

            “I found it in a used bookstore.” Stiles didn’t have to look at Scott to know he was beaming. “Do you like it?”

            Stiles had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could answer. “I love it,” he said. He opened his mouth, started to tell Scott what else he loves, but stopped, like always. Instead he stood, newspaper wafting to the ground. “Wait here.”

            He dashed out to his car. He didn’t think to grab his coat, and by the time he reached Roscoe he was shaking, goose pimples dotting his skin. He grabbed the guitar case out of the backseat and hurried inside.

            The look on Scott’s face was worth ten times what the guitar costs. Stiles couldn’t help but notice his hands were shaking when he reached out to take it from Stiles. He clicked open the case and lifted the guitar out, cradling it in his lap. When he looked at Stiles, his eyes shimmered.

            “Thank you,” he whispered, fingers reverently stroking the strings. “How did you know?”

            Stiles couldn’t help but smile. While out shopping one day, Scott had lingered in front of the window of the pawn shop, staring at the guitar so long Stiles was surprised his eyes didn’t bore a hole in it. Of course Scott didn’t say anything, but that same day, as soon as Scott went home, Stiles drove back to the store and bought it, hiding it in his closet, waiting for this very moment. Scott thought himself opaque—an unfortunate side-effect of a life heavy with secrets—unable and unwilling to unload his wants and wishes on others. But Stiles had been watching Scott for most of his life. He’d long since catalogued his smiles, the varied twinkles in his eyes. He felt like he knew what Scott wanted better than he did. Stiles answered him in all honesty. “How could I not?”

            Scott set the guitar aside and pulled Stiles into a hug. His chin rested in the crook of Scott’s shoulder, their cheeks touching. He felt warm and strong, and as he always did whenever Scott held him, Stiles felt safe. When Scott let him go, it took all of Stiles’ resolve not to pull him back in.

            They sat on the floor together, their knees touching. Stiles started reading while Scott strummed on the strings. The soft glow of the fire dimmed as it cooled to embers. Unconsciously, the boys scooted closer and closer, until Stiles was practically draped over Scott’s lap. They’d both set aside their presents, content to simply sit with the other. Scott drew lazy circles on Stiles’ back, while Stiles toyed with the hair at the base of Scott’s neck.

            Scott’s fingers stilled and he pressed his palm to Stiles’ lower back. Something in the way he cradled him, the sudden stiffness in his arm, made Stiles wake up. He craned his neck back to look up at Scott. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” Scott whispered as if it were the truest thing ever. “Everything’s perfect.”

            Later, Stiles would try and remember which of them leaned in first, if he had imagined Scott’s eyes closing as he tilted his mouth towards him. But as soon as soft lips pressed to his, everything else flew from his mind.

            _Oh_ , he thought, _this is nice_. It’s not that Stiles had never thought of kissing Scott before—in fact, rare was the day that passed without Stiles thinking about kissing Scott. He’d just never thought he’d get the chance. When he’d told Scott about hooking up with Dani at one of Lydia’s parties, Scott had shrugged and asked if he was going to finish the rest of his fries, but acceptance of his best friend’s fluid sexuality was a far-cry from decking himself out in rainbows. Stiles had, with no small amount of bitterness, buried the hope that Scott would ever be more than a brother to him, but as his mouth widened to allow Scott’s tongue to slip inside, Stiles wondered if he’d sold him short.

            “Sorry,” Scott said as he pulled away, red-cheeked and plum-lipped. “It was something I had to do.”

            “Don’t apologize,” Stiles said, cupping the back of Scott’s neck and pulling him towards him. “Don’t ever apologize for that.”

            They spent what felt like hours kissing by the fire, till the embers darkened and cooled to nothing more than a soft, orange glow. Stiles lied on the ground, his legs intertwined with Scott’s, and stroked his jaw. His lips, kiss-swollen, tasted faintly of peppermint. “We should have done that a long time ago.”

            Scott nuzzled his cheek and suppressed a yawn. “I’m trying to remember why I didn’t before, but I can’t.”

            In the end, they migrated to Scott’s bed, and spent the final hours before dawn cradled in the other’s arms.

            Stiles awoke alone to the smell of pancakes and the bleary cheer of Christmas music. After getting dressed, he stumbled downstairs to find Scott, wrist-deep in pancake batter, dancing around the kitchen.

            “Hey!” He said, dashing over to kiss Stiles’ on the mouth. “You’re awake. Merry Christmas!”

            Stiles mumbled a reply, his fingertips ghosting over his lips, which tingled with Scott’s kiss. Something warm and runny broke in his heart, the yolk of love seeping down to his fingers and toes. When he’d awoken alone, for a brief moment he’d been seized with terror—not that last night had been a dream, but that it had in fact been real, and that Stiles would have to live out the rest of his life tortured by the memory of a perfect evening. But as Scott shimmied up to the counter, singing along to _Rudolph_ , Stiles allowed himself to hope.

            They woke Melissa with breakfast in bed, barely letting her take two bites before shuttling her downstairs to open presents. “Here, open this one,” Scott said, thrusting a delicately wrapped box into her hands. “It’s from both of us.” And though they’d bought the stethoscope months ago, deciding to offset the cost by splitting it, _us_ had taken on a richer meaning since dawn. Stiles marveled at the taste of it in his mouth, running his tongue over the syllable and trying not to blush.

            One by one, they made their way through the presents lining the tree, the mountain of torn paper steadily growing. Scott got a new helmet (from his mom) and racing gloves (from Stiles). Melissa, in addition to her stethoscope, received a bottle of her favorite perfume, and a coupon book of chores. Stiles, despite being Jewish and in no-way biologically related, still got two books about serial killers and an extra-large roll of duct tape.

            “For Roscoe,” Scott said, ducking his eyes.

            Around noon they migrated to the living room to watch Christmas movies. Stiles, arms laden with popcorn, hesitated between sitting next to Scott on the couch or staking a spot out on the floor, but before he could decide, Scott reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging him down beside him. He threw a blanket over their legs and took the popcorn out of Stiles’ stunned hands.

            From her perch on the La-Z-Boy, Melissa eyed them with a smile. Though she made no comment about the way Scott’s fingers trailed across the back of Stiles’ neck, there was a certain knowing to the upturned corners of her mouth.

            They watched _Frosty_ and _The Grinch_ , _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , and Stiles’ favorite, _Miracle on 34 th Street_. As the day wore on, Scott scooted closer and closer, looping an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and pulling him in, till his head rested on Scott’s chest. When Melissa got up to get ready for work (“People get sick, Scott, even on Christmas”), they barely moved, so content in the other’s space. If he breathed deep, Stiles could pick out Scott’s deodorant—warm with a hint of musk—and it instantly became his new favorite smell.

            Stiles checked his watch and saw it was nearly five. He looked up at Scott and noticed the way the television’s glare dashed across his jaw, the way his eyelashes seemed to darken against the whites of his eyes. It was the most perfect picture he’d ever seen, and one he never wanted to let go.

            “I have to head home,” he said, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice. “It’ll be sunset soon, and we need to light candles.”

            “I’ll come with you,” Scott said, sitting up. “If that’s okay.”

            And it was, Stiles thought, because nothing in the history of the world had ever been more okay than this. In the car they sang along to the radio, Stiles drumming on the steering wheel. When he reached for the gearshift, Scott took his hand and held it in his lap all the way home. They parked in the driveway, and Stiles leaned across to kiss him, just once, on the side of his mouth.

            “Dad?” Stiles called as they walked inside, “Scott’s here.” Rounding the corner into the living room, they found the sheriff in front of the mirror, trying to clip a yarmulke onto his hair. It flopped ineffectively onto his forehead, dangling by a strand.

            “Stiles,” he said, gesturing to his head, “a little help?”

            “Sure, Dad.” He waved John down, unclipping the yarmulke and settling it on the crown of his head. He fit the clip around it and snapped it shut. “There you go. What a mensch.”

            “Thanks.” He squeezed Stiles’ shoulder. “Your mother never understood my issues with this.”

            “To be fair, neither do I.” Stiles grabbed Scott’s shirt and tugged him forward. “Scott’s going to join us. Do you know if we have any extra yarmulkes?”

            “Check the drawer in the kitchen, I think there’s one from your cousin Tami’s bat mitzvah.”

            Stiles rummaged till he found it, the purple velour dulled. “Here, you just sit it,” he plopped the yarmulke amid Scott’s hair, “on the top of your head.” John handed Stiles’ his, and he clipped it on.

            Stiles fit the bright blue candle into the menorah and handed Scott the lighter. He fumbled with it the first time, but managed to get the wick lit.

            “ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu, l'had'lik neir shel Chanukah_.”

Scott, his eyes hooded as he watched Stiles recite the prayer, followed after with a whispered _amen_. John pulled them both into a one-armed hug. “Who’s ready for some latkes?”

            Before they knew it, the kitchen swelled with the smell of potatoes frying in oil. When John wasn’t looking, Stiles sneaked a donut, shoving half into Scott’s mouth when he started to snitch. Piled high, the latkes threatened to topple off the plate, at least, that’s the excuse Stiles gave when he grabbed a handful before they even made it into the kitchen. Spooning mounds of applesauce, they ate together, laughing, their voices rising over the clink and scrape of knives on plates.

            After, they spun dreidels, and though he only had a vague concept of the rules, Scott somehow amassed a small mountain of gelt, half of which Stiles stole. “How can you possibly still be hungry?” he asked.

            “I’m a growing boy,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate.

            “Son,” John said, “the only way you’re going is out, not up.”

            After dodging a handful of gold coins, John wished them a good night and went to bed. Scott offered to stay and help wash the dishes. Huddled around the sink, their hips bumped together and their arms brushed each time one of them reached for the soap. By the time they’d finished, both their faces were red, but neither of them could blame it on the hot water.

            “It’s, uh, getting late,” Stiles said as he dried his hands.

            “Oh.” Scott’s body went stiff, frozen half-way to reaching for a dishrag. His arm fell limply by his side. “I guess I should be heading home.”

            Stiles kept his eyes on the floor, where his toe worried a spot of spilled soap. “You could stay.” He dared to dart a glance up. “If you want.”

            Scott reached out and grabbed Stiles’ shirt, pulling him close. When he kissed him, he tasted of chocolate and hope. “I do.”

            In Stiles’ bedroom, they undressed shyly, their backs turned. Though he’d seen Scott naked hundreds of time, each etched into his memory for safe keeping, suddenly the sight of his brown skin filled his stomach with butterflies. Together they slid beneath the covers, their sweats-clad limbs shivering.

            They lied on their backs, staring up at the spackled ceiling. Stiles’ heart beat against his ribs; his face flushed.

            Slowly, like a vine creeping along an ancient trunk, Stiles’ fingers moved to Scott’s. With tender, gentle touches, he graced the white crescent moons of his nails, the calloused pad of his thumb, the warm heart of his palm, the rapid river of his wrist.

            Suddenly, Scott grabbed Stiles’ hand, and rolled over and onto him. His face hovered an inch from Stiles’. In the dark of the room, his smile glowed.

            “Is this okay?” Scott asked. His hips pressed against Stiles’, a persistent pressure.

            Stiles lifted his head and kissed him, looping an arm over Scott’s neck. His mouth moved against Scott’s.

            “Fuck,” Scott whispered as Stiles licked along the side of his neck, grabbing the lobe of his ear to nibble. “ _Fuck_ me.”

            “As you wish,” Stiles grunted as he wrapped his legs around Scott’s hips. He shifted, rolling them onto their sides. As soon as Scott was on his back, Stiles straddled his hips, pushing his ass back on the mound of Scott’s crotch. “The inverse sounds equally appealing.”

            “ _Por que no los dos_?” Scott asked with a smirk.

            Stiles grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. The smile slid off Scott’s face, replaced with an open-mouth stare. His eyes dragged over the mole-speckled expanse of his chest, his nipples like two pink candles.

            With reverent fingers, Scott touched, hands sliding up the smooth of Stiles’ belly, over the bumps of his ribs. He cupped his shoulders and drew him down, kissing him till his lips went numb. Stiles mewled softly.

            “Not that this isn’t amazing,” Stiles said as Scott sucked a burnt plum at the juncture of throat and shoulder, “because trust me, Scotty, this is fucking _amazing_ ,” Stiles pushed Scott down to look at him, “but I literally feel like I’m going to explode.” Together they looked at Stiles’ crotch, his pajama bottoms tented near to ripping, a dark, wet circle spreading by the second.

            “Sorry,” Scott said, sitting up and laying Stiles down, his head towards the foot of the bed, “right. Let me take care of that.” Scott hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Stiles’ bottoms and tugged them down around his ankles. His cock flopped against his belly with a _smack_. “Oh.”

            Scott had peeked—once or twice—at Stiles in the locker room. Idle male curiosity. But he’d never seen Stiles like _this_ —tumescent and throbbing, the tip of his cock glistening with a pearl of precum. He took it in his hand, giving it a tentative squeeze. Stiles threw his head back and groaned.

            “Yeah, Scotty, yeah—do that.”

            Grinning, Scott pumped his hand, slowly at first, adjusting to the weight of it, but as Stiles’ cheeks hollowed and his chest flushed, Scott grew bold, moving faster and faster, twisting his wrist at the head, till Stiles was a squirming mess below him. He listened to Stiles’ heartbeat—a mad, tambourine clamor, which threatens to split his chest in two—waiting till it reached its height, fever pitched, before he pulled his hand away. Stiles whined loud and long.

            “ _Shh_ ,” Scott soothed, “I’ve got you.” He rubbed his hands on Stiles’ thighs, kneading the tender muscles. Slowly, Stiles began to groan, his eyes fluttering shut. Scott worked his fingers higher and higher, till he poked and prodded at his hips. Carefully, he held Stiles’ cock and pressed a kiss to the tip.

            Stiles keened, arching his low-back off the bed as Scott wrapped his lips around him, tongue flicking out to dart across his leaking slit. He started to bob, mouth moving up and down, sloppy and unskilled, but Stiles writhed and moaned all the same. Spit dribbled out of the corners of Scott’s mouth, pooling in the nest of dark curls at the base of Stiles’ cock.

            Stiles wound his fingers through Scott’s hair, grip tight, not pushing so much as guiding him further down. Soon, Scott gagged on the full length of him, his bottom lip tickling Stiles’ balls. With his feet planted on the bed, Stiles began pumping into Scott’s mouth, his nails digging into his scalp. It only took a moment before he came, open-mouthed and moaning loud enough Scott worried they’d wake the sheriff.

            The sudden taste of Stiles, spurting across Scott’s tongue and down the back of his throat, startled him, not only for the surprise, but how much he loved it. With his hand, he milked out every drop, tongue lapping, till Stiles whined and pushed his head away.

            “Too sensitive,” he panted. Scott came to lie beside him, their heads hushed together on the pillow. With lazy fingers he traced circles around Stiles’ nipples, watching the frantic rise and fall of his stomach even out to a gentle wave. “That was—”

            “Yeah.” Scott nuzzles up to Stiles’ neck, kissing his pulse. He rubbed his nose against the lobe of his ear. “You were—”

            “You too.”

            Quiet fell over the bedroom, their breathing the only sound. Stiles scratched Scott’s back, their legs intertwined. Gradually, the flush retreated from Stiles’ face. He shifted and felt the persistence of Scott’s cock against his thigh.

            “We should do something about that.”

            Scott lifted his head to look at where he ground against Stiles. “It’s okay,” he said, though his hips never stilled. “We should get some sleep.”

            “I’m never going to be able to sleep with _that_ digging into my back,” Stiles said, sitting up. He swung his leg over to straddle Scott’s hips. He pushed back, wiggling his ass. Scott moaned, grabbing him and pulling him down onto his crotch. “Besides, it’s not fair, you getting to see my O-face and me not seeing yours.” He bent low, ass pressing into Scott’s dick as he bit his lower lip. “I bet it’s amazing.”

            Stiles started to roll his hips, Scott’s dick rubbing at his cleft, the rhythm steadily growing faster. Scott’s fingers dug into the mounds of Stiles’ ass, pulling his cheeks apart. The head of his dick slipped against the tight pucker of his hole and Stiles’ whole body shuddered, a moan slipping out between his wet lips. He shifted angles, so every pass brought Scott’s dick butting up against his hole.

            “Do you…?” Scott panted, afraid to give voice to his question, not wanting to pressure. Stiles ducked down, grabbing his face and drinking kisses from his mouth.

            “Yes. Do you have lube?”

            Scott nodded, reaching blindly into the drawer of his bedside table. The contents clattered as he searched, finally pulling out a half-empty bottle of KY. The snig of the cap boomed in the quiet, their breathing hushed as Scott dribbled a generous helping onto his fingers. He reached around Stiles to slick himself up, cock glistening in the lamplight. He wiped his hand on the bedsheet, grabbing Stiles’ hips.

            “Are you ready?” he whispered.

            By way of answering, Stiles reached around and took hold of Scott. Sitting his hips back, he guided him towards his hole, till the slick head of his cock was nestled against the tight whirl of muscle. With tortuous slowness, Stiles lowered himself onto it, the tip of Scott’s cock pushing in one inch at a time.

            When the head cleared, slipping in with a sudden relaxing of muscle, Stiles groaned, half-pleasured and half-pained. Scott rubbed at his thighs, the veins of his arms growing dark as he drained the discomfort from Stiles’ body. He felt, deep inside himself, the ache of something being pushed inside. But the tension evaporated from Stiles’ face, the crease in his forehead softening and smoothing out. With greater ease he sank down, until the entirety of Scott was nestled inside him, up to the hilt.

            “Are you okay?” Scott asked, muscles of his stomach tense with the effort to keep still, to not fuck up into the delicious warmth wrapped tightly around him. “How does it feel?”

            “A— _fucking_ —mazing.” A coy smile flittered across Stiles’ mouth. “Holy shit dude.” Stiles planted his hands on Scott’s chest, gripping the muscles there, leaning down to nuzzle his neck. “It’s—fuck.”

            “Good?” Scott asked, twisting his neck to pepper Stiles’ face with kisses.

            “Better than.” Stiles gave his hips an exploratory roll, and they both shuddered and moaned. “Magnificent Moses that’s good.”

            Together they found a rhythm, Stiles shifting back onto Scott’s dick while Scott gently bucked into him. As their bodies grew accustomed to the other’s, they grew bold, their movements brisker, until the room filled with the wet smack of Scott’s hips against Stiles’ ass.

            “Fuck,” Scott said, eyes screwed shut, “fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.” He grabbed Stiles’ hips, flipping them in one deft turn. With a surprised _oh_!, Stiles suddenly found himself on his back, his knees pressed into his chest, Scott’s face hovering above him. Scott shifted, hands on Stiles’ thighs, and began to rut into him with a bed-bending force.

            The sounds Stiles made, long since devolved into grunts and wordless, monosyllabic bursts of animalistic noise, electrified Scott, sending shivers down his spine and making his toes curl into the bed. Stiles tightened around him, hugging his dick in a vice grip, but it was Stiles’ hushed _kiss me_ that sent Scott spilling over the edge. Their mouths locked together, Stiles swallowed Scott’s gasping moan as his hips stuttered and his rhythm grew frantic. A warm rush filled Stiles, and with a few quick tugs he followed after, shooting wet and white over his knuckles and onto his belly and chest.

            For what felt like hours they lied entwined, panting into the other’s face. The air in the room, muggy and musk-filled, smelled of them, thick with their scent and seed. Slowly, Scott slipped free. Stiles whined as a dribble of cum leaked out and stained the sheets.

            Gathering Stiles in his arms, Scott pressed him to his chest, hands on his back. At first, their hearts beat out an arrhythmic madness, but the longer they held each other, the more in synch they grew, till even with his heightened senses Scott couldn’t tell whose was whose. Scott’s world grew dim and hazy as sleep crept over him, but he roused when he felt Stiles shuffling in his grasp.

            “Scotty? You awake?” Scott half-groaned, nuzzling his chin into the top of Stiles’ head. “Okay, good. Cause there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

            Something in Stiles’ tone made Scott sit up, nails scratching at Stiles’ scalp. “What is it?”

            Stiles couldn’t look at him, focused instead on a mole on Scott’s collar bone. “This…this wasn’t a one-off thing, right?”

            Love poured out of Scott’s heart, sending warmth down to his fingers and toes. Gently, he cupped Stiles’ chin, tilting his head up to kiss him, soft and sweet. When he pulled back, it took a second for Stiles’ eyes to flutter open, and in that moment, Scott thought it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. “Definitely not. I’m in this as long as you are.”

            A smile broke out across Stiles’ face, and Scott took his time kissing it. When they broke apart for air, Stiles’ cheeks were flushed, and Scott’s cock ground into his thigh.

            “So,” Stiles asked in between kisses to Scott’s jaw, “what are we then?”

            The question gave Scott pause. Stiles had been an unquestionable part of his life since the third grade—he’d honestly never imagined a reality where they weren’t by each other’s side. Stiles was his best friend, more than his best friend—they were like brothers. But the thought of fucking his brother made Scott wrinkle his nose, and the corners of his mouth turn down.

            Stiles mistook this for apprehension, and hasted to brush his question away. “Forget it,” he said, shrugging, chin tucked into his chest. “It’s stupid.”

            “No!” Scott hurried to say, “no. I just…didn’t expect to fuck my best friend. My head’s a little all over the place.”

            “Yeah, well, you and me both. Plus, I was the one getting fucked, so, doubly confused.”

            “Did you ever…?”

            Stiles bug-eyed at him. “What, with Lydia? I mean, sure, she might have slipped a finger round back once or twice, but that’s a big leap to throwing a strap-on at her and telling her to go to town.” Stiles thought for a minute and quirked his head. “Why? Have you?”

            Scott blushed, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck to his collarbone, and Stiles needling him in his ribs didn’t help. “Okay, okay, uncle. I maybe bought a toy for myself.”

            Stiles leaned up and nipped Scott’s ear. “Not _that’s_ something I need to see.” Stiles paused. “…after our first date?”

            Scott blinked, worried he’d misheard. His face broke out in a grin till his cheeks ached. Somewhere between kissing Stiles’ lips numb, he muttered _yes, yes, a million times yes_.

 

            And the day had finally come. They’d wanted to wait till after the holidays—Scott was going to see his Dad for New Year’s, and everywhere would have been packed anyway—but the resurgence of Deucalion had further derailed their plans. Stiles had started to worry maybe Scott had forgotten. They’d spent most every night together, sometimes fucking, sometimes simply holding each other till they fell asleep. Melissa and John noticed the shift in their relationship—you’d’ve had to be blind not to—but had tactfully stayed mute, only gracing them with knowing smiles, and the occasional condom left on the nightstand. But aside from that first night, they hadn’t talked about what they were doing or what exactly it meant for them.

            Stiles hopes to bring it up tonight, if Scott ever arrives.

            As if summoned by the thought, Scott pulls up on his bike, bundled in his leather jacket, hands and head clad in gloves and helmet. Stiles can’t suppress the grin that breaks across his face, nearly bouncing on his heels as Scott parks. It’s all he can do not to run into his arms when Scott saunters—fucking _saunters_ —up to Stiles.

            “Hey, handsome,” he says, balling a handful of Stiles’ coat, pulling him in for a quick kiss. Despite the chill, Stiles feels warm all over. “I got you something.” Unzipping his jacket, Scott fishes inside, producing a rose, which he hands to Stiles with a blush. All Stiles can do it accept it, lips parted, dumbfounded. “Too much?” Scott asks.

            “No,” Stiles says, voice quiet. “No. It’s perfect.” He looks Scott in the eye, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re perfect.”

            Scott’s smile could have lit up the whole sky. He hurries to open the door for Stiles, ushering him inside. The maître-d shows them to their table. Unable to help himself, Stiles pull out Scott’s chair, brushing the seat before he sits down.

            “People are staring,” he says goodheartedly.

            “They’re just jealous,” Stiles says, taking his seat.

            “Of what? The service or my boyfriend?”

            Stiles’ fork clatters to the floor, and he scrambles to pick it up, more to hide his blush than anything else. Scott hides his smug grin behind the menu.

            They order pasta, two different kinds, trading bites between mouthfuls of garlic bread. Stiles says he couldn’t eat another bite, but when the waiter brings the dessert menu, he convinces Scott to go halfsies on a piece of chocolate cake. They eat it, sharing the same spoon, their hands clasped together.

            Riding back to Scott’s, Stiles wraps his arms tight around Scott’s middle, chin resting on his leather-clad shoulder. By the time they pull into the driveway, his face is numb, from smiling or the wind he can’t be sure. Scott holds a finger to his lips as he fits the key in the lock. They creep up the stairs, shredding their coats and letting them fall to the floor.

            Bellies full, they crawl beneath the covers and into each other’s arms. Stiles rests his head on Scott’s chest, lulled by the soft murmur of his heart. Scott cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair, humming softly. It is the most perfect they have ever felt.

            “Rain check on fucking your brains out?” Stiles asks through a yawn. “I’m worried I’d fall asleep halfway through.”

            “Sure thing.” Scott nuzzles his nose into Stiles’ hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Not sure I’m up for it either.”

            “This is nice though.” Stiles settles deeper into Scott’s arms, his eyes drifting shut.

            “Yeah,” Scott agrees, his own head sinking into the pillow. “It really is.”


End file.
